Tales of Suspense at 221b Baker Street
by Bartimus Crotchety
Summary: An injured man chased through the London fog by a relentless foe, a grieving man haunted by a shadow, a costume ball that takes a turn, and a monster dragging itself up the stairs, these are tales of suspense that Arthur Conan Doyle never imagined!
1. Chapter 1

First in a series of Halloween prompt fics I wrote from last year. I enjoyed them so much but I never found a reason to post them here. So I am going to do so now. I have written so little lately that I don't want people to think I've died...then again maybe I have and am writing from the great beyond...nonetheless I hope you enjoy this.

**Bart**

* * *

**It Came Up The Stairs...**

The elder lady crept into the room, she glanced about cautiously.

"No need to fear, it has not arrived home...yet," stated a voice from before the fire causing her to start.

She clutched at her chest. "Please, don't scare me like that, Mister Holmes, my nerves canna take much more."

Her renter's eyebrows furrowed in empathy. "I apologize, I'm afraid my nerves have been affected somewhat myself, causing me to become insentient. I ask your forgiveness."

The rain beat against the panes of glass like a primordial beast clawing for entrance, they both tensed. The wind whistled, it was the high-pitched wail of a homeless banshee.

"Frightful weather, this is," she murmured barely above a whisper.

He nodded gravely. "Not as frightful as some things in our association, though."

She agreed with a pensive jerk of her head.

The door at the bottom of the landing suddenly burst open, the slam of the door against the stop echoed up the stair well similar to the thunder rolling across the heavens just beyond the glass.

She let out a little cry of distress and Holmes doused his pipe, fearing the odour would rouse another roar from the beast.

There was a grumble and growl as it ascended dragging itself up the stairs with a limping series of slow sloshes.

"Steady, woman..." Holmes intoned, as his housekeeper looked ready to bolt for a warren in which to hide from the impending arrival of the creature.

It reached the landing, and made the turn into the parlour. It slammed it's drenched hat onto the rack with a pitter-pat of draining sluice, and turned to them it's eyes alight with a temper as foul as the weather outside.

"Have you two been conspiring against me, yet again?" it inquired with a raspy indrawn breathe, a wet rumble within its chest.

They both shook their heads suspiciously in unison.

Its eyes swept over them like a predator searching for sustenance, there appeared to be a yellow glint in its eye but that could have been a trick of the gas light that he had demanded be turned down so the glare would not hurt those watery orbs earlier this day.

"W-will you be t-taking dinner?" the lady inquired in a querulous voice, just a note shy of panic.

"Do I appear capable of a missed meal?" was the reply. "Did the apothecary send a messenger by?"

She nodded a little too rapidly, turning to Holmes to answer.

Holmes gave her a furious stare for throwing him out in front. "The medicine is in the lavatory, as requested."

It glared at them both some more, then drug it's way past grumbling to itself in a manner reserved for trolls and goblins who steal children.

They both started as the lavatory door slammed.

"I so detest influenza season! Why, oh why won't Doctor Watson admit he is sick and take the rest he needs?" Missus Hudson lamented with a wary glance.

Holmes sighed rubbing his stiff neck that the tension of the last few moments had managed to kink. "I'm afraid we will have to cancel his appointments for the rest of the day."

He held up a vial to the light. "The apothecary delivered more than his medicine."

She nodded. "For his own good," she remarked with resignation.

"And for our precarious sanity, I hold the dear man in the upmost esteem but too much more of this and I will be investigating a suspicious smothering with a pillow one day soon!" Holmes answered with a wince.

"I'll make the soup."

"I'll measure the knockout drops."

**END**

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For those who've read my Doctor Watson Police Surgeon Series Book Four, they will remember that Mrs. Hudson did a very unexpected thing because Watson was so ill...this is a story inspired by that event.


	2. Chapter 2 Quarry

Written for a challenge but it did not place, I like it and I wanted other people to read it so I posted it here.

I hope you all like the twist!

**Bart**

* * *

**Quarry**

Footsteps echoing on cobblestones came to his ears out of the fog.

Watson leaned against the splintered door of the hovel.

_They're still after me...why won't they leave me alone?_

Images kept flowing through his tired mind.

The door bursting open, a shot ringing out, Lestrade falling clutching his chest from what must have been a fatal wound, Watson fighting back with everything he had, a collision and blood, and...Running to get help for his friend...and...It was all fog and haze and strangely monochromatic...

He heard them calling his name again.

He made his way through the abandoned building; past discarded crates used recently for furniture...and through the detritus and stench to what had to be the back door.

He leaned his head against it listening for pursuit.

So weary, he wanted to rest, to sleep and find oblivion.

Trying to remember how this all began and where he was, he had to get away and find help for Lestrade, his mind was too jumbled.

"I think he went through here!"

Though the door and out into the forgotten cluttered alleyway, the fog wet on his cheeks.

He stumbled along nearing the end of his strength, but he had to go on.

He reached the end of the alleyway and cautiously glanced out but the street beyond was swathed in vapour and dimly lit by wavering gas light, it gave a sightline too limited to see his pursuers.

He heard what sounded like a cart clip clopping its way in the other direction; he stumbled out and found it in the gray.

He slipped under the wrappings and into the bed as gently as possible, finding a soft covering of hay.

He knew he should stay alert and...

Awakening with a start, he felt the cart under him had stopped, the steed neighing, he heard sounds of carousing and accordion music, the driver must have popped in for a pint.

He slipped out and patted the horses flank as he past, "Sorry old girl, needed a ride."

Lurching off into the swirling eddies away from the sound of the tavern, he sought a main road, and his head was beginning to pound again.

He tried to keep going but his knees buckled.

They would find him, they had found him twice before, whomever it was pursuing was an amazing tracker for sure. He would feel some admiration if they had not been hounding him for the last dark hours.

He heard voices coming out of the fog, he was the topic of conversation...they were closing in again.

He was reaching the end of his rope, so he made a metaphysical knot, and steeled himself in determination. They might take him but it would not be easy.

He found a board in the alleyway, he gripped it knuckles white and waited for them to close in.

_I'm sorry Lestrade, I tried, my friend..._

"I think he went this way, there is blood on that cart, drops on the cobbles leading off."

Watson touched a hand to his head, it came away tacky and red...strangely...the only colour he could see.

_So, that is how they are tracking me..._

He felt a faint coming on, but he fought it away with gritted teeth, he would not be weak, they would not find him insentient!

"We are closing now, careful, he is dangerous, he's already laid two men low."

_I'll lay all you blokes low, come on and get what's coming to you_, he thought grimely.

"Halt! I hear him breathing."

Watson cursed his shortness of breath, but he just could not breathe shallow or he would black out.

"Watson, I know you are there, come out old fellow we want to give you aid," the voice cajoled

"If you want me, then you'll have to come and get me!" he called back not liking the weariness in his voice.

"Drop your weapon, it's over, you need medical attention."

Watson considered his options.

_Oh well, it's the charge of the light brigade then!_

With a bellow, he marshalled all of his remaining strength and ran toward the voices his makeshift club held high. He swung at any shapes that came to him out of the fog, he met one with a comforting smack, and a grunt of pain before two strong arms grabbed him under his arms and restrained him, his knees buckled and darkness found him, last thing he knew he was being lowered to the street.

**~o0o~**

"Watson? You have to wake up."

A hand shook him gently.

Watson opened his eyes to white. His eyes refused to focus. He blinked them several times before things began to sharpen.

He was clean and wearing a dressing gown, the scent was antiseptic and familiar.

He turned and saw a familiar face smiling at him.

"Holmes?"

He nodded. "It's me, dear fellow, have no fear. You suffered a severe concussion, which is why I had to wake you."

Watson gave a start. "Lestrade is hurt; we've got to go get him!"

"Oh, quit being so dramatic!" he heard a weak voice to his left declare.

He turned to see the Chief Inspector looking wane, pale, heavily bandaged and irritated about it. The location of the bandages showed Watson's trained eye that the bullet must have lodged in his shoulder and not his chest.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "You gave us quite the scare and laid out three of my men who were trying to find you."

Holmes chuckled. "I've never been on a more precarious rescue, you are a very dangerous quarry my friend!"

Watson felt his cheeks redden. "I thought I was being hunted by the men that attacked us."

Lestrade laughed. "Oh no, the one that pistol whipped you is not in any shape to chase anyone, you did for him before you stumbled out."

Watson turned to a smiling Holmes, he felt irritated. "Why did you not just tell me who you were?"

Holmes raised a wry eyebrow. "Would you have believed me?"

Watson sighed and laid his head back on the pillow. "No, I would have let you get close and tried to give you the head wound."

Holmes nodded agreement. "An animal wounded is a very tricky hunt to run to ground."

Watson sighed.

_This is going to be a topic of discussion for years yet to come!_

_**END**_

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**_I would imagine that being the hunted with Holmes on your trail would be a frightening feeling indeed, so it was neat to explore that from the point of view of the hunted even if it was mistaken identity. Of course hunting Watson would not be without it's perils LOL!__

_**Thanks for reading!**_

_**Bart  
**_


	3. Chapter 3 In Costume

I've always loved this story. I am very happy to share it with you guys now. It is fluffier than my usual fare, but it always brings a smile to my face. I hope it brings a grin to yours.

**Bart**

* * *

**In Costume...**

Holmes checked his appearance in the mirror once again.

"Here I am, the foremost master of disguise in all of England and I am forced to use my skill for something jejune as a costume ball," he grumbled. He took off the feathered hat and blue doublet with the white fluer-di-lis. He checked the French style slender moustache and goatee with a trained eye. "Zis will ave to do, no?" he inquired of his image.

"We," came an answering reply from outside the open lavatory door.

He turned to give Doctor Watson a baleful eye.

The insufferable man was sporting rolled up shirt-sleeves, black suspenders with his black trousers and leaned against the door post with casual ease, in for the night and looking far too comfortable for Holmes's liking.

"And what, may I ask are you wearing, Watson?"

Watson shot him an irritated glare. "We have had this conversation."

Holmes saw something in the depth of his friend's eyes that clued him in on his friend's uncharacteristic reticence.

"I've noticed a bit of black creeping into your wardrobe, Watson, it would take a far less perceptive man than I to miss that there is significance to this time of year. I don't understand what it could be, your dear wife departed this world on a day in January and yet you are mourning her in October."

Watson turned on his heel in an almost military fashion heading back fireside. "We are not having this discussion."

Holmes followed him out. "I am afraid we must, dear Watson. This invitation was for us both, if I must decline on your behalf I feel a need to be informed of the true reason before I am forced to formulate one."

He settled into his customary spot with the paper. "It will have to suffice that I am not feeling up to such an outing, for that is all the explanation you will receive from me."

He buried himself in the paper, but it was the business section and not the gossips, so Holmes knew it was a ruse.

He sat across from his friend, picked up his violin and began to make a sweet lulling melody, something to calm the savage beast, hopefully.

"Very well, if I must speculate, I must," Holmes mused as he played.

"All Hallows Eve is such an interesting time of year, steeped in tradition and folklore, however to some, it is a time of innocence and enjoyment, in particular to children."

Holmes noticed that the paper wrinkled under Watson's hands.

"I would imagine to a couple rendered childless, it would be a time of bittersweet reflection," Holmes stated as he made a quick arpeggio.

"You have no idea what of you speak, a change of topic would be the healthiest course at the moment," came a warning from behind the newsprint wall.

Holmes set the violin down. "You know my relentless nature, Watson, once I am on a scent."

Watson just grunted in a manner, which insinuated he felt the matter closed.

"I thought we were going to attempt to return to our friendship, Watson, this kind of reticence does not bode well," Holmes said in a voice just loud enough to cross the distance.

Watson lowered the paper, his eyes full of a distant pain. "We had a stillborn infant, just past the first anniversary of your "death" Holmes. She was so tiny; we thought to name her Violet. She died three years ago earlier this week, Mary never really recovered. There were times I wished we were barren."

His tired eyes found his flatmate. "There, Holmes, you have sussed out the truth of the matter, does that lay your fears about our friendship to rest?"

Holmes nodded as he picked the violin back up. "Quite, however, it still does not answer why you will not attend this dreadful conflagration with me. I shall be in need of someone to talk to that has a head on their shoulders; all that will be attending are gossiping spinsters and popinjays. If you have any manner of decency, you will attend on my behalf.

Watson's defeated sigh was apparent across the room.

"I have no costume."

Holmes smiled. "Lestrade has agreed to come as Aramis, I am Porthos, and for crusty reliable old Athos, your attire is hanging in your closet. Fortunately, you already have a moustache; with a bit of wax and a fake goatee, you will be set."

Watson folded the paper with frustrated jerks. "You knew I would give in?"

"Crusty, and reliable," Holmes reminded him as he launched into an improvised ditty that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

**~o0o~**

They wandered through the cavernous Ballroom of some member of nobility that Watson forgot as soon as he was told.

It was no matter; he planned to make an early exit as soon as it became prudent. He was not exaggerating his reluctance to Holmes, he really did not feel his best. Seeing Lestrade at their side dressed as the Musketeer Aramis, with the cross around his neck and a glint for the ladies in his eye caused Watson to realize that Holmes had chosen their parts well. His grumpy demeanour and aloof bearing did match the literary description of Athos, just as Holmes bustling lack of tact and careless words embodied Porthos. They were fortunate that no one had demanded they raise swords and make the appropriate declaration, Watson felt he might skewer the first person who demanded it.

The blade at his side was a French style rapier; a thin elegant sword that reminded him of his fencing days at Oxford. It was a very accurate reproduction, Holmes would allow no less.

He made his way through the crowd, nodding and attempting not to let his dour mood show.

"Ah, a Musketeer, you are Athos, no?" inquired a drunken lady with a scandalous low cut décolletage that Watson found somewhat distracting. He nodded politely.

She dipped closer giving him an unobstructed view. "I am Milady de Winter, you do not recognize me, your former bride? I am hurt."

Watson sighed deciding to play along to get free if her. "I am very sorry, Milady, but what is past is past, if you will excuse me."

He glanced around to find Holmes and Lestrade but saw the traitors had wandered off out of easy range.

She had obviously imbibed half of the offered beverages off the trays from the smell of her breath when she leaned in to place her arms around Watson's neck. "Let it be between us, as it was as of old." She leaned in before he could protest and warm pliable lips found his, her arms tightening in wanton embrace, he attempted to push back and get some separation but his hands accidentally found her breasts.

"You will release my woman!" called a challenger from just to his left.

Watson managed to push the woman away long enough to see an angry man dressed in dark finery with his sword already drawn.

"It is the Count of Rochefort, you must defend my honour!" she insisted as she shoved Watson in the other man's direction.

There was a ring gathering as the other man immediately made for Watson his feet showing an obvious skill. Watson barely managed to get his rapier clear of its sheath to counter a slash.

The battle, joined in earnest, and Watson was at a disadvantage, he thought he heard some swords clashing to his left but he dared not look, he was in a scene straight from Alexander Dumas's imagination, and not faring well. The other man slipped his guard and he felt a stinging on his left shoulder, he realized that the man had pricked him.

"Now hold on, this has gone too far!" he bellowed trying to get the man to come to his senses.

Rochefort sneered at him. "This is the mighty Athos? I had heard that the Musketeers were all shiftless layabouts, and glorified cowards, but this is truly disgusting!"

Watson felt his blood boiling. He was not a Musketeer but he had loved the book since he was young, it was that book that taught him that there were heroes in the world, and even if he was not Athos, he would not allow this man to defame that great character.

"I would expect so much from Richelieu's errand boy, if you feel that I have not given my full measure, than come, I await you," Watson declared with a flourish of his sword.

This time when the other man came at him, he was not entirely on the defensive. He was a feared duellist at Oxford and even though it had been years since he last held a sword, his old skill found his hands easily enough. Something about the costume, of portrayal took him out of himself and he was no longer Doctor John Hamish Watson, lonely widower, but the dashing and dour Athos, the most serious and reliable Musketeer.

He broke a clench, ducked under the man's arm, and slapped his backside with the flat of his sword causing the other man to grow more aggressive in his anger. Watson laughed at him and taunted him with seeming ease. "So this is the state of the Cardinal's guard, most disgraceful." He said as a quick exchange of parrys and thrusts ended with a near disarming of his opponent. The other man was getting desperate and he attacked with too much ferocity, Watson used his aggression against him with and sent the man's sword out of his hand, he placed the tip of his sword to the man's chest. "Do you yield?"

The woman who was portraying Milady de Winter called out. "Don't hurt him; we were just having some fun!"

Watson snapped out of his trance and looked around at the amused guests. Holmes and Lestrade had barely restrained smiles, they had their swords drawn and trained on two men who had red doublets.

Rochefort was sweating from his efforts, his smile disarming. "I am Gregory Prescott and that is my wife Elise, we were just having you on, my friend."

Watson backed away feeling like a fool.

Suddenly the crowd around them began to clap; Prescott and his wife joined them.

Watson in a moment of flippancy swept his hat to the side in a bow.

Lestrade and Holmes joined him in the circle and without another word raised their swords to his.

"All for One and One for all!"

**~o0o~**

Lestrade and Holmes watched from across the room, as Watson slept soundly in front of the fireplace. He had been excited as he chatted about the events of the evening, then almost as soon as he sat on the couch he drifted off to sleep, his first sound sleep in days.

Lestrade and Holmes had placed him prone and removed anything that would impede his rest.

"So where did you find Prescott?" Lestrade inquired between sips of brandy.

Holmes flashed the Inspector a grin around his pipe. "He is part of a theatre group that performs period pieces exclusively, I proposed this bit legerdemain and he provided the actors."

Lestrade nodded to the man now shifting quietly to a more comfortable position. "Do you think this might have broken him out of his dark mood?"

Holmes sighed. "All I know is that for tonight, he was able to escape himself for a short while, what effect that will have on him for the future I know not."

Lestrade chuckled. "He did know his way around a sword, I'll hand you that!"

"I saw his fencing trophies often enough, but he surprised Prescott and us all with his ability, I warned Prescott that breaking the skin would not be the wisest course," Holmes replied with a glint of pride in his eyes.

"Strange..." Lestrade replied his voice trailing off.

"What is strange?" inquired Holmes.

Lestrade's smile was wistful. "There is something about costume, about dressing as someone else that makes you feel like a kid again, before adulthood came and you forgot how to pretend."

Holmes nodded, watching his flatmate with amusement. "In this case, I don't think it was as much pretence as distillation."

He held up his brandy. "All for one?"

Lestrade completed the toast with a smile and a clink of his glass and Holmes as they nodded to their slumbering mate. "One for all."

They sat in contented silence as their friend dreamt of flashing swords and distressed damsels, of a day when men of honour, such as himself, were not so out of place.

**END**

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**

I liked the idea that Watson read adventure stories when he was a lad, it makes a lot of sense that he would have had that sort of bent as a young man when you see the course his life took. Three Musketeers would have been on the reading list...nobody did sword flashing derring do like Dumas!

thanks for reading!

**Bart**


	4. Chapter 4 Cast No Shadow

This is the eeriest of the fictions in this collection, and at the same time the most poignant. It is also a song fic which I have never attempted before or sense, I wrote this around the break up of Oasis last year this time. I've always loved Noel Gallagher's lyrics and this one, written about a writer friend of his that had a series of unfortunate circumstances happen in his life, was one of his most haunting.

Is this a ghost story or merely a tale of one man's decent into grief and madness...I'll let you decide.

**Bart**

* * *

**Cast No Shadow**

_Here's a thought for every man_  
_Who tries to understand what is in his hands_  
_He walks along the open road of Love & Life_  
_surviving if he can_

_Bound with all the weight of all the words he tried to say_  
_Chained to all the places that he never wished to stay_  
_Bound with all the weight of all the words he tried to say_  
_and as faced the sun he cast no shadow_

**Noel Gallagher**

**~o0o~  
**

Here I am putting pen to paper once again. Some blokes deal with circumstances with drink, others with the occasional dalliance with the feminine, I have a friend who thinks putting a needle in his arm is an option, the idiot. For me, John Hamish Watson, it has always been a pen.

They watch me carefully here. My every action is managed by unseen hands controlled by the decision of men I have never met, they even watch this pen's location, asking every so politely if I have completed my epistles for the day then securing it before locking the door to my room back for my own safe keeping.

I have moments when I can clearly recall why I am here, but that lucidity is fleeting, and judging from the medications that I am given, those brief moments are accompanied by some dreadful realization that causes ungentlemanlike behaviour, so maybe I am better off not knowing.

I supposed I should begin at the beginning.

I was at Kensington, seeing to my patients, and in love with my wife living my life day by day with an occasional flight of fancy with my dear friend Sherlock Holmes, it was a very good life to be sure.

I was minding my own, paying my bills and staying busy, occasionally I would help Scotland Yard with a tricky autopsy; they see in me some rare skill I have never spied in myself. This extra work helps with expenses, and affords me some superfluous purchases from time to time. There is a vendor on the corner at Piccadilly that sells the most amazing roses, they are of a lavender colour that I have found nowhere else, I manage to secure one at least once a week for Mary. She accepts it with that rare grace that is hers alone, and nods for me to put it in a vase for her to admire. I get the most marvellous compliments from my patients. I tell them, "That rose is not as pretty as my dear wife." They give me the strangest looks at those words, rather rude of them I say, causing me undue amounts of stress.

I eventually decided that I wanted a week alone with my wife so cancelled all appointments and sent the house staff away, they seemed alarmed by that move on my part, but I assured them we would be fine, we survived before we could afford staff. It was not as if they would never see us again.

We talked of travel, but my dear wife seemed happy with just my presence, so I spent the days in her company, ignoring any summons I received, or telegrams, it was like a second honeymoon for us. The touches we shared, the looks and glances that spoke volumes of words that our lips had no need to utter, I wanted it to go on forever.

It would have except for that infernal banging on the front door, then the windows then the back entrance.

I insisted that they go away, but the door was kicked open violently.

It was Holmes and Chief Inspector Lestrade looking severely put out.

They rushed into the parlour where I rested with my wife. "What is the meaning of this outrage?" I bellowed.

He tried to argue with me some rubbish about my mental state. I assured him that if I were going mad my wife would let me know, he need not have bothered. He babbled on some more but I ignored him because Mary was moving towards me across the room, and her radiance took my breath.

"Watson, what are you looking at?" Holmes asked me in a patient tone of voice that held an edge of an emotion I did not know. "You fool, I am staring at my beautiful wife, how can you miss her?"

He and Lestrade exchanged a glance. "Is she in front of that window, Watson?"

I rolled my eyes at his sudden density, "Of course she is, do I need to shine a light in your eyes to check for cloudiness?"

He reached out and grasped my shoulder gently. "Tell me, my dear Boswell, does she have a shadow?"

I glanced down at my beloved's feet, I scarcely remember the next moments, and I awoke to find myself here.

There are days when I can convince myself that I saw her silhouette on those floorboards; days when I can almost see her delicate figure in that shadow at her feet, those days have been growing few.

They tell me that I must understand the significance...

Of what I...I cannot recall...I am giving the pen back now.

**~o0o~**

**Doctor's Notes concerning patient John Hamish Watson:**

** The complete psychotic break suffered by the patient in question has continued to keep a grasp on his mind. All attempts so far to remind him of his wife's passing have been met with a violent outburst and immediate sedation. Watson was broguht in suffering a head wound from a pistol blow to the temple meted out by his friend and primary caregiver Sherlock Holmes. Holmes claims that he had to fight the patient for a revolver after he attempted to take his life; the struggle was such that he knocked the man unconscious to subdue him. This account, collaborated by a member of Scotland Yard who was on the scene.**

** One mystery that needs to be cleared up for security purposes, on multiple occasions, the nurse has come into Watson's bed chamber in the morning and found a peculiar shade of rose, it is a pink-purple colour of a type I have not seen before. He has bars on his window and is in a secure wing of the facility that keeps a guard on the door. His friend Sherlock Holmes is looking in on the mystery but as of yet has not discovered a perpetrator.**

** In the way of coincidence, Watson carrying on conversations with his dead wife during the night has accompanied these nocturnal Rose gifts.**

** I am unable to draw any conclusions at this time.**

**Doctor Emile Cabrera**

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I've never decided what this story is, supernatural or merely tragedy, but It always leaves me with a sense of melacholy. Don't worry though, the good doctor recovers eventually. At least I want to believe he does...you decide.

**Bart**


End file.
